— I’m not complaining, – she said firmly. — And they are eating.
Rogov chuckled briefly.
— You’ll gather a bunch of vagrants at your spot, – he muttered. — And then the inspectors will come. And goodbye.
Zinaida Petrovna met his gaze without lowering her head.
— Let them come, – she said. — There’s nothing dirty here, only hunger.
Rogov clicked his tongue and left. But his threat lingered in the air. Zinaida Petrovna looked at the children. Matvey looked at her as if he didn’t understand why someone was defending them. Gleb swallowed slowly. Denis pressed his lips together in suppressed anger.
Zinaida Petrovna lowered her voice:
— Eat up. And when you’re done, tell me where you’re going. I won’t be at peace if I just let you go.
The three exchanged glances, and for the first time, something other than hunger appeared in their eyes. A small hope, like a flickering flame. Zinaida Petrovna didn’t know it, but at that moment, with three simple plates and a firm phrase, she had done something the world doesn’t easily forgive or forget. Because feeding three homeless children was an act of kindness, but also, without meaning to, a promise.
The street remained the same. Cars drove by, people bought things without looking, the pan crackled like a tired heart. But for Zinaida Petrovna, the evening was no longer the same since the three children sat on her plastic stools. Matvey, Gleb, and Denis finished their portions carefully, as if they wanted to make the warmth of the food last longer. They didn’t ask for more—not because they didn’t want to, but because they were ashamed.
Zinaida Petrovna took a napkin and handed it to the one in the middle.
— Wipe your face properly, son, — she said without excessive sweetness, as a real grandmother would.
Gleb nodded, looking down.
— Thank you, ma’am, — he whispered.
Zinaida Petrovna collected the plates slowly, looking at their small hands. Children’s hands, but with the marks of the street: scrapes on the knuckles, broken nails, fingers slightly swollen from the cold of sleeping wherever they could.
— So, — she said, placing the plates on a tray, — where will you go when the sun sets?
The three exchanged a look as if agreeing without words.
— Under the bridge, — Matvey said almost inaudibly.
Zinaida Petrovna felt a lump in her throat. The bridge was a well-known place. Shadows, cardboard boxes, dampness. There were corners in the city where people disappeared, and no one noticed.
— Why not a shelter? — she asked.
Denis’s mouth tightened with distrust.
— They separate you, — he said bluntly. — They say those are the rules.
Zinaida Petrovna frowned.
— And you don’t let them.
Gleb shook his head with sad stubbornness.
— If they separate us, we’ll never find each other again, — he said, swallowing. — And it’s worse alone.
Zinaida Petrovna fell silent for a second. She looked at the pot, the street, the box of change, and felt a quiet anger at such rules, rules made at desks and applied to the skin of children.
— Alright, — she said finally. — I won’t separate you either.
The triplets looked up at the same time, as if that phrase had become a roof over their heads. Zinaida Petrovna lowered her voice.
— But you’re not just leaving, — she said. — Who abandoned you? Do you have any relatives?
Matvey shrugged. Denis looked away. Gleb hesitated for a second, then spoke.
— We don’t really remember, — he whispered. — Only a car at night, and then nothing.
Zinaida Petrovna felt a chill. It wasn’t a full story, just a fragment. And fragments, when something is missing, usually hide something heavy. She didn’t press. She didn’t want to pull out the pain by force.
— Okay, — she said. — You’ve eaten today, and if you want, you can come again tomorrow. But on one condition.
The three tensed up, as if afraid of the cost.
— What is it? — asked Denis.
Zinaida Petrovna looked at them firmly.
— No stealing, — she said. — Not out of hunger, not out of anger. If I give to you, you respect me and you respect yourselves.
Matvey nodded quickly.
— We don’t steal, — he said.
Denis pressed his lips together.
— Sometimes they accuse us, even when it’s not our fault, — he muttered.
Zinaida Petrovna understood. On the street, guilt is assigned based on your face and clothes.
— Not here, — she said. — Here, we tell the truth.
The children fell silent. And then, as Gleb moved to get off the stool, something peeked out from under his shirt collar. A thin chain, dirty with dust, with a small pendant. Zinaida Petrovna barely noticed it. But she did. It was a metal pendant. Simple, with a very distinctive shape: three dots connected like a strange clover or three stars together.
Zinaida Petrovna froze. She had seen that symbol before. Not on the street, but in a place that didn’t fit with a homeless child.
— Hey, — she said softly. — That’s a pendant. Where did you get it?
Gleb instinctively pressed his hand to his chest, protectively.
— It’s mine, — he said with distrust. — I had it from before.
Zinaida Petrovna swallowed.
— Before you ended up on the street?…
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